Tyrant (33 page)

He held his breath and spotted, at that very moment, a half-closed door at the end of the room: a way out. Light as a shadow, he moved towards a long rack hung with dozens of spears and polished swords and grabbed one, lightning quick, twirling around, ready to strike, but his blue eyes darkened when he saw that the stool was empty. A flash of intuition made him spin around just in time to face the silent menace who loomed before him now. A sword sliced through the air and he barely managed to fend off the blow. The two irons met, spraying sparks, and the sudden clangour tore through the silence of the great empty room, resounded against the bare walls and ceiling, blow upon blow, echo upon echo, the din becoming deafening.

The Celt was incredibly agile. His naked, glossy body darted like that of an animal, with an energy that seemed to grow rather than diminish with each clash.

His adversary entered all at once into the halo cast by the lamps and stopped again, stock-still. He was barefoot and naked as well, but his head was completely covered by a Corinthian helmet; only his eyes gleamed from the darkness of the sallet. He was not panting: his chest was perfectly still, his burnished body seemed made of bronze. He raised his sword into a horizontal position and pointed the tip at the Celt’s chest, advancing slowly. The Celt drew himself up, bending his knees, concentrating all his forces into the imminence of his spring, and stared at the point of the sword, preparing the blow that would give him his victory. He swooped a cleaving blow down on the outstretched sword to knock it out of his opponent’s hand, but the iron was pulled back so swiftly that his stroke fell short. As he was thrown off balance, his faceless adversary dealt him a kick behind the knees, then kicked him again in the back, sending him reeling to the ground. A moment later, the Celt felt the tip of the sword chill his back between his shoulder blades.

‘Death is cold,’ rang out a voice distorted by the helmet. ‘Is it not?’

The tip was raised and the blonde warrior took advantage of the moment to grab his own sword and twist around upon himself like a snake, but he immediately found his enemy’s blade at his throat. It pressed down, cut his skin.

He was still armed, but if he had attempted even the slightest move, the sharp tip would have broken through the fragile threshold of life at once, cutting off his breath and the flow of his blood. He dropped back on to the floor, panting, and let his sword fall.

‘Get up,’ he heard, and then the voice had a face. The helmet was raised and rested at the top of the head, revealing dark, penetrating eyes, fleshy lips, a face shadowed by the faintest hint of a very dark beard.

‘I know you understand Greek,’ said the voice. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Aksal.’

‘What tribe are you from, the Insubres or the Cenomanians?’

‘Boi.’

‘Get to your feet.’

He got up and stood nearly a whole head taller.

‘The Boi are in Gaul. What are you doing in Italy?’

‘Many our people pass Liguria.’

‘From where?’

‘Mountains.’

‘Who took you prisoner?’

‘Etruscans. Ambush. Then sell me.’

‘Why did you try to kill me?’

‘For Aksal free.’

‘You have only one way of being free: serving me. I am Dionysius, the chief of this very powerful tribe called Syracuse.’ He pointed his finger at the neckband and tattoo: ‘I know what that means.’ The warrior pulled back as through the tip of the sword had stung him again.

Dionysius continued: ‘I am also the chief of a “company” like yours, warriors who have sworn to help each other as brothers, and to be second to none in courage and use of our weapons. We are the best, and that is why I defeated you. But I’ve also spared your life. Now decide: do you want to be my shadow or do you want to return to your master?’

‘Be shadow,’ said the Celt without hesitation.

‘Good. Go to that door: you’ll be given clothes, weapons and a place to live. Someone will teach you to talk as well . . . with time. And cut off your moustache. You look like a barbarian.’

Aksal headed for the door with long, silent steps and disappeared on the other side.

Dionysius covered himself with a chlamys and went the other way, towards his own quarters. He lay down on his iron-hard horsehair mattress and fell into a deep sleep.

Leptines woke him up in the middle of the night.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Dionysius, sitting up on his bed, alarmed.

‘Nothing. Everything’s fine.’

‘What are you doing here at this hour?’

‘I’ve come from a meeting of the Company. We were all in Doricus’s house. When I left, an old man who seemed a beggar came up to me and said: “I want nothing from you. Give this to your brother and tell him to read it with a number seven.” ’ Leptines handed him a long strip of leather.

Dionysius got up, went into the corridor and examined it by lamplight. There were letters, words, but they were cut short and illegible. ‘A
skytale
,’ he said. ‘What did the old man look like?’

‘Rather stout, and nearly bald. Just a crown of hair around his temples and the nape of his neck. I think he had black eyes, but it was dark . . . everything looks dark at night.’

‘Are you sure he didn’t say anything else?’

‘Nothing else.’

‘Didn’t he have an accent? What I mean is, did he speak like us? Or like a Selinuntian? Or an Acragantine? Or a Geloan? Did he speak like a foreigner?’

‘He just muttered those few words in a low voice, he gave me that thing and then he vanished. The only thing I can say is that he was Greek, not barbarian.’

Dionysius meditated in silence for a few moments, then said. ‘Wait for me here, don’t move. I’ll be back.’

He returned to his bedroom, opened a safe hidden under the floor and extracted a bronze bar from about ten of them lined up inside. He wrapped the strip of leather around it, then went back out into the corridor to read the message in the light.

‘What does it say?’ asked Leptines.

‘Nothing you’d be interested in,’ replied Dionysius. ‘Thank you. Now go to rest. Tomorrow come here to the barracks and take charge of training the new recruit, the Celt I bought at the port. No spears, just short arms. Try him with a bow – I think you’ll find he’s an expert. And ask Philistus to arrange for someone to teach him Greek: he speaks like a brute. You move in here and take my place. I’ll be going away for a while.’

‘Away? Where?’

‘I can’t tell you, but you stay on your toes. Keep your eyes open. No one must know I’m not here: it would be fatal. For all of us.’

‘But when will you be back?’ insisted Leptines.

‘As soon as I can,’ replied Dionysius, and disappeared into his room.

Dawn surprised him as he was riding inland, making his way up the Anapus valley. The vegetation was very dry due to a long drought, and the earth all around the river bed was parched and cracked. The flocks grazed on stubble when they could find it, or wandered aimlessly, heads hanging, in the dense, dim atmosphere. The valley soon dipped between high banks as the river turned into a narrow torrent. He continued until, towards evening, he reached the sparkling waters of the source. Dionysius’s senses were plunged instantly back to that brief season spent there between life and death. Much closer to death than life, actually, yet magical in its own way, delirious.

He felt an aching energy as lost or buried feelings were awakened. He could feel the vital flow that issued from the spring, smell the scent of withered mint along the shores, hear the screeching of the birds of prey who swooped down from their shelters on the high rocky walls. And then he perceived a feral look, piercing him between his shoulders and neck.

A voice suddenly beckoned. ‘Come closer.’

‘Who are you?’ asked Dionysius, putting his hand to his sword.

‘Throw that away, you won’t need it here. Come this way.’

He turned and saw a shadow slipping behind a wild olive tree. He followed. The shadow stopped and merged into the shaded hollows along the wall. ‘Do you have a name?’ asked Dionysius.

‘No. I have a message.’

‘What is it?’

‘Someone has left a treasure for you.’

‘Who?’

‘If you don’t know, I certainly can’t tell you.’

‘Tell me where it is, then.’

‘At Acragas, in the pond. Go as far as the fourth column of the portico. You’ll need pack horses. Three at least, perhaps four.’

‘Who sent you?’

‘Someone who doesn’t exist any more,’ he said, vanishing as if swallowed up by the rock.

Dionysius returned to the shores of the spring, seeking contact with that nearly miraculous vital fluid. He was about to submerge himself in the cold waters when he saw something moving under the surface . . . could it be the nymph of the spring?

She emerged suddenly, her shining hair falling on to her shoulders, drops of water streaking her dark face like tears, her eyes black under long lashes, her lips the colour of pomegranate. How could it be? Could she be that wild creature that had visited his dreams?

He drew closer as she continued to emerge from the water, her shoulders and then her breasts, as full and firm as the muscles of a warrior, her flat, taut stomach and then her pubis and her thighs, straight and gleaming like bronze. He was so close now that he could smell the scent of her skin. A sharp but pleasant smell, like that of new wine.

He thought of Homer’s verses:

He let his sword drop as Menelaus had before Helen’s nude breasts, like Odysseus in front of Circe; he then bent and picked a little wild lily, the last one of that long, scorching season, and offered it to her. She stiffened for a moment, backing up in the water, then took the flower and put it into her mouth, chewing it slowly. Dionysius let his chlamys drop to the ground and entered the spring. They came together effortlessly in the pure water, and she wrapped herself around him, biting and scratching him, yelping like an animal and crying out in her ecstasy, a husky, gasping cry which ended in a sigh of abandon. They stretched out alongside each other on the sandy shore, letting the warm breeze dry their bodies.

Some time passed, and again he heard the voice saying: ‘Take her with you.’

Dionysius startled, as though he had forgotten the reason why he found himself in that place. ‘How can I? She has never left here, she won’t be able to get around in the world outside this valley.’

‘Take her with you,’ the voice repeated. ‘She will follow you.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because she can stay under water longer than any other being. Perhaps she is a nymph: you have won her over and she will protect you, as Athena protected Odysseus. I have told you all that I must say. Farewell.’

Dionysius ran over to the rocky wall, to where the voice was coming from, but found nothing there.

He had spoken with an echo.

He cut a circular hole in the middle of his cloak with his sword. He pulled it over her head and fastened it at the sides with a branch of twisted willow; docile, she put up no resistance. It was as if she had long awaited him, as if she would do anything to stay with him. The valley was still dark, but the sun was beginning to gild the edge of the cliffs far above. A suffocated neighing echoed at a short distance and Dionysius saw three horses tied to a tamarisk. He looked at the girl and said: ‘If you want to come with me, you must get on a horse. Like this.’